White Eagle Down
by NeenerNoot
Summary: Altaïr is up against an army of Templars. When he is felled by them, a familiar face comes to greet him in nirvana, and many events that are unusual to our Masyaf Eagle begin to ensue. -contains character death. Sort of. Warnings and such inside.-
1. Fall

'allo, humans :) This is the first fiction I have put on this site. It's gory, depressing, has some cursing and inapropreate themes, but no sex. Though, there is reasonible, happy fluffyness at the end (quoting from the movie, "Dispicible Me": IT'S SO FLUFFY IM GONNA DIErdfhndfhndrynssahjs) Ahhhh yes, so, there is character death in this. And no, I did not cry while writing this. I did, in fact, cry at the end of AC Revelations OH GODS THE FELLS WHYgtsdvfbihksdfkjhvskbhsgsrbm Well, I hope you TWITS-I mean lovely humans enjoy 3

White Eagle Down

One wrong step in this kind of business meant fatality. Altaïr repeated that in his head over and over again as he was faced with a damned city-full of guards and Templars. Down they went, one by one, by Altaïr's skilled hand. One swing of his sword to a neck, the next through a gut. Despite how, to another, he may appear to simply be swinging his silver sword around, hoping for a kill, he was carefully parrying blows, and striking vitals. He had been doing so for nearly two hours, and his seemingly limitless strength had begun to fail him on the first sword strike to his body. Right through the thick muscles of his upper arm, the sword of the Templar guard cut through his tanned skin like butter. The next went to his calf, bastard thought he could get the jump on Altaïr and strike him from behind. Fool didn't have a straight mind, instead of just trying to kill him, he crippled him. Now he has no mind to think with, as the assassin's sword was thrust through his skull. The next strike was to his ribs and dangerously close to cutting his lung. He had parried a blow and nearly had his weapon wrenched from his grip by the brutish Templar when a cowardly guard struck him in his weakened position. He promptly slaughtered them both. Another hour went by, Altaïr was still faced with a platoon of Templars that seemed to never end. His breath came in wheezing gasps, his many lacerations stung from the sweat that beaded on his skin. The ground was a sticky, muddy puddled of dirt, corpses, and blood beneath his feet, and not all of the blood belonged to Templars. The wounds that lined his body were many and deep in nature, and he feared that the particularly deep on on his neck-shoulder junction had severed an artery. Though, the Eagle would not flee from this battle. His pride would not let him, no matter how grave his wounds. He will not surrender-

"Die, assassin!" One of the guards screamed, charging at the white and red-clad man. He dodged the poorly aimed strike easily, moving to one side before bringing the pommel of his sword into the guard's temple, knocking him to the mud. His arms screamed bloody murder into his brain to STOP, but he would not. Another guard, poorly aimed strike, simple evasion, sword to the spine. Another, guard, sword to the midsection, another guard, hidden blade to the eye, another. . .

Suddenly, Altaïr choked, and blood spewed from his mouth. He would have yelled, screamed even, but his own blood had destroyed any use of his throat. He looked down, his vision sharp yet blurry, and found the double-edged blade belonging to a nearly 7 foot tall Templar protruding from his gut. He tried to make a sound, only succeeding in gargling and chocking on more of the hot, red liquid. His lungs, throat, and seemingly his heart, tightened up. His mind began to race and blur, turning into a garbled mess of words and memories. His eyes, those wild golden eyes, rolled back into his head, and Altaïr Ibn La'Ahad fell into hot nothingness.

/

I kinda liked writing this part. Look, I actually have the entire story completed, I just want some opinions on this first part before I post the rest. Or, because I am not a patient beast, I might just post it anyways :P We'll see. Be good, kiddies!


	2. No Regrets

Altaïr's eyes opened, and he found that he was face down in bloody mud. He couldn't move, he couldn't breath, his nerves were screaming in agony. His mouth was full of blood and dirt, but he was numb to everything but pain, and the fact that he had a sword stuck through his body, nailing him to the earth. 'What a truly pathetic way to die. . .' He thought to himself, his own voice sounding loud and echoey in his head. His eyes shivered slightly to the sound of footsteps coming near him. 'Another God damned guard coming to scrape his boot on my bloody carcass? Rash, respect-less heathan. . .'

"Altaïr, my friend, my brother. . ." A voice. . . Altaïr knew that voice.

"Kadar. . ." Altaïr was suddenly standing in a white nothingness. In truth, it was Kadar that stood before him. Seeing him after all of this shot a pang of guilt and self-loathing through his heart. "Kadar, my dear friend. . ." The boyish-faced male held a hand up to silence him.

"You must not blame yourself for what happend to my body, Altaïr. I was struck down by the acursed blade of a Templar, not by you. I only wish Malik were not so traumatized by the whole ordeal. . . I don't want him remembering me as his dear little brother who was killed by Altaïr," He said, his dark eyes shining like starlight. "I want him to remember me as his little brother, who would happily die for this order, for our Creed. I HAVE died for our Creed, friend. I died fighting by my beloved brother's side. If I could have died any later in my life, I wouldn't have had it any different." He finished, a hand over his heart as if to seal his sincerity. Altaïr's jaw hung loosely. He was in shock. His first though: I am dead, and speaking to one of the many men I have wronged, second: Kadar does not loath me for the event? And third: What am I to say? He gaped like a fish, looking for words and almost getting them passed his scarred lips, but never truly able to.

"Kadar. . I. . . I'm so sorry for my rash actions back at the Temple. If only I had listened to Malik!" He said, nearly yelling at himself, tears threatening to break loose. "I. . . I could have fought with you both. . . And at least you would have lived."

"Brother, I had no regrets in life. I was happy. I may have fallen, but Malik completed our mission, and even though he feels he has fallen through the ranks, the novices still speak of him as a warrior. He carries a heavy scar from that battle, but he sees it as only a liability. Of course, it is truly terrible, what he had to go through with his amputation. . ." Kadar looked to the ground and shivered ever so slightly. "But, he does not see. . . Many have suffered as he has before, and none have lived and pulled his mind from that traumatic-fog as he has. He is still strong; they are not. I wanted Malik to remain an assassin, to prove he's still one of the best, but. . ." He looked into Altaïr's eyes, who's were clouded with pain and guilt. "Al Mualim didn't see him as he should have. But, look, my friend. . . I'm not here to make amends. It happened; the damage is done. I'm here to tell you to not guild yourself when you hear my name. Altaïr, I'm HAPPY. I've been happy. Tell me, brother, when have you ever seen me when I was not spry and smiling?" He inquiried. Altaïr took a breif moment to file through his memories, but turned up blank. Kadar grinned in triumph at this. "Do not be guilty, be happy I died a warrior's death. I want you to tell Malik that I am- and was, happy, as well." Altaïr allowed himself a small smile at Kadar's words. A rare thing, indeed. He missed the energetic, enthusiastic man. He, Malik and himself were a trio when they were novices, always doing missions together and getting in trouble together. Altaïr missed those times from the bottom of his heart, and he felt that he would always keep the guilt that it's over because of his fault in his heart. Then Kadar's last few words sunk in.

"Brother, I am a spirit out of my battered body. How am I to relay this to Malik if you could not in this similar state?" He asked, head cocked. The dark haired boy smiled again, the galaxies that swirled in his eyes seeming to grow misty.

"Altaïr, my dear friend," He came up to the golden-eyed assassin and placed a hand on his shoulder. "You are not finished living your life yet. Go, and do me but what I asked of you to tell my dear brother, and one other thing, if you would."

"Of course. What favor would you ask of me?" Altaïr asked.

"Change the world." The hand on his shoulder suddenly shoved him backwards, and instead of stumbling onto the floor of the white void, he began to fall. Clouds seemed to obscure his vision of a glowing, smiling Kadar looking down at him as he was falling, before he felt himself hit the ground with the most violent of jolts. Well, he didn't move an inch from where he was before, he realized. Though, that was before he realized that he could breathe, and his face was not in the mud. Instead, he was looking up through the familiar wooden grate that covered an assassin's bureau.

"Wh. . . What?" He mumbled in a hoarse, cracked voice. There was shuffling to his right, and a familiar one-armed dai emerged from the inner room's shadows.

"Altaïr. . .?"

/

I really hated writing this part. I'm horrible at conveying emotion on text and good at writing spiritual scenes. Flying fluck, I need to work on this one, for sure. I hope it doesn't melt your eyes, at least.


	3. Hollow

Malik paced in front of his desk in the assassin's bureau in Jerusalem at some ungodly hour of the night. He was anxious, angry and annoyed, but mostly anxious. It had been two days since Altaïr, the damned novice, had left to go on a mission to gather information about his target. A mission that should have only taken a few hours. His anxiety was seeded after the first day, early the next morning, when warning bells rung their tune through the pale, sleepy city. He had first assumed that the novice had screwed up and was going to scurry back to his bureau, tail between his legs, cursing about how one little guard he hadn't slaughtered in time had blown his cover. But, no. He didn't come back. And now it was nearly the dawn of the third day, and Malik was just tempted to say "fuck it" and drag the novice (who was probably perfectly fine) back to his abode. Itching to kick the novice where the sun doesn't shine, he pulled on his tall leather boots and black dai's coat with shaking, clammy hands. He had a sick feeling in his stomach that he would find the golden-eyed idiot hanging from the rafters of some tall building with a noose around his neck.

"No, no. . . I'm not going after this fool. He's come back fine from suicide missions before." He told himself as he jumped down from the bureau's roof onto the dusty streets. "He deserves whatever death the Templars give him after what he's done. . ." He mumbled, hollow spite in his words has he searched every nook, cranny, and crevice for wild eyes and white robes. "He doesn't even deserve a seat in hell. . . Bastard can be sold as a sex slave for all I care. Heh, sick fucker would probably like it, too. . ." He hissed, knowing it wasn't true as he scoured every rooftop garden and hay bale for his novice. Wait, HIS novice? He stopped dead. "What the fuck. . .?" He could find no words to explain his possessive prefix in context to that murderer. He didn't question it as he peeked around corners and looked left and right through barren side-streets. Suddenly, a heavy, metallic musk hit his nostrils. He knew that heady scent well: Blood. His pace quickened. "Novice probably let one of those worms-meat guards drop to the ground on a bloody heap. . ." He said to himself. There was, in fact, a worms-meat guard on the ground in a bloody heap, but that is not all that caught Malik's eye. There were well near one hundred guards and Templars, all flayed and bleeding out on a cramped street in the poor district. The stench of blood and human flesh that has been sitting out in the sun too long nearly made the dark haired man vomit. Guards were every where: On rooftops with little silver throwing knives sticking out of there foreheads like macrebe unicorns. Some were missing limbs, heads, hands, feet, others had neat slashing marks along the entire of their bodies like tiger stripes. Others were cut straight in half. This alone nearly made the hardy, stoic Malik want to turn away, but it wasn't the endless swath of bloody Templars that made him sick to his stomach. It was the shock of white, nearly soaked red in blood in the center of the fray that caught his eye and made his inards twist. Malik stepped carefully over bodies, the blood-soaked mud squelching beneath his boots. He nearly tripped when the fly-ridden entrails of what used to be a guard wrapped around his ankle. He kicked it off and continued his stony pace until he reached his destonation. There lay Altaïr Ibn La'Ahad, face down in the mud with a Templars sword through him like a cerimonial stake. Malik's dark-skinned face nearly turned paper white at this. He was horror struck at this. All of his bitting quips and bitter insults were lost on his tongue as he dropped to his knees in front of the mutilated assassin.

"Altaïr, you fool. . ." He whispered in a pale voice. Malik heard the squelching of footsteps behind him, and turned to see a Templar walking through the gory mess.

"Ah, I see you have come for your assassin, dai." He spoke in a smug voice through his metal veil. "How pathetic. . . You do not even possess both arms. Look just give my sword to me, and I won't have to hurt you." He said, like one would coax a child to give them their book back. But Malik didn't hear him. Rage- pure and unadulterated, boiled into him in an instant. Malik had alredy drawn one of his throwing knives he kept in his pack and stood. "Ho-ho? Looks like-" The blade flew from Malik's slender fingers beautifuly, slipping right through the thin, rectangular hole in the Templar's helm where his eyes could be seem shining through. It struck with a sharp crack, and the Templar fell backwards. Another body for the masses. Malik's anger was never quick to cool, but he had more pressing matters at hand. He turned towards Altaïr once more, assessing the situation. Seeing as he did not bring supplies to stitch him up, he decided, heart racing and fingers trembling, to remove the damned sword and carry him back to the bureau. He swollowed, and carefully wrapped his single hand around the leather hilt of the sword. With some difficulty, he was able to dislodge it, wincing at the sick sucking noise that came from pulling the sword out. Once it was free of Altaïr's cold flesh, he violently flung it to one side and quickly kneeled down beside the downed Eagle. He felt for a pulse on his wrist. Nothing. He felt for it again on his neck. Nothing again. Malik began to grow somewhat panicked. A few weeks ago, the thought of seeing Altaïr in a state like this would have put a cruel joy in his heart, but now. . .

Malik's blinding hate for this man has cooled. Everyday he tells himself how much he hates the novice who's arrogance cost him his beloved baby brother, his arm, and his possition as an assassin, but his words of loathing were hollow. Now, he knelt in front of the battered, bloody form of the man he felt he should be hating for his mistake right now. Instead, he felt fear. Unexplainible, yet perfectly valid. Malik willed his suddenly frantic breathing to slow as he turned the Eagle over onto his back.

"By all that is holy. . . Oh no. . ." Altaïr was pale- gray, almost, and covered head-to-toe in blood. Deep sword wounds laced his body, muscle and bone visible through each of them. His prone form was, in a word, the deffinition of one deadened from battle. Malik's façade broke. Whether he liked it or not, this man is the closest thing he has left to a brother. Their escapades as a trio were not forgoten by Malik. He can never truly wish any death on this man. Their kinship went too deep. And Malik has nay a quam about it. He felt afraid, sick, and almost guilty. The things he had done to this man out of hate. . . Malik never truly forgived himself after what he did to Altaïr the second time he saw his face again. . . How could he just go to sleep soundly after what he did? He didn't. He hasn't for nearly a year.

He shook his spinning head. 'Now is the worst of times to delve in this. . . I must help him!' Malik wraped his arm under Altaïr's chest and heaved his dead-weight partially over his shoulder and quickly began trotting his way back to the bureau. A thought occured to him; How the hell was he supposed to get into the bureau with this deadman on his back? Malik realized, consitering how pale and cold Altaïr was- much to his woe and near tearbreak, that it was probably pointless to heal the man. It was already too late. He kept telling himself; "It's not too late, he's lived through worse. . ." in his head over and over again as tears began to spill from his eyes and sobs began to wrack his form until he could run no more. He colapsed on his knees by the breauro wall, close to breaking down in heartbreak. He layed Altaïr's limp body against the wall.

"A-Altaïr, my dear brother. . ." He sniffled and choked on a sob. "I'm sorry. . . I'm so sorry for what I have been doing to you!" He all but yelled at Altaïr. "I am a sick animal! I dare keep you secretly near and dear to my heart as I rape you and abuse you. . . You do not deserve this." His tears blurred his vision, and his voice was slurred and shaky as he spoke. "You. . . You are all I h-have left. . . Yes, it was your mother fucking fault Kadar is dead, that my ah-arm is lost, and," The wiping of tears, another wet sniffle. "Ah-and that I am no longer a t-true assassin. . . B-but, Altaïr, you are my BROTHER. . . You were not buh-bound to me by blood, b-but. . . You and Kadar were truly the only things that mattered to me!" Malik shuffled to the Eagle's cold corpse and pressed his forehead to Altaïr's own, his face wet with snot and tears. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I have wronged you, mh-my brother. . . Please, Altaïr, come back! I need you in my life! I can't loose the only th-thing I have left to live for. . . I like it when you come back with that smirk on y-your face, bloody feather and all! I like it when you come back wounded and you trust me enough to stitch you up, even after what I have done to you! I love it how you curl up into a ball when you are sleeping, ah-nd I can come and pet your hair, because I love seeing you with your hood off. . . Oh, Allah, what have I done?!" Malik broke, crumbling into a mess of apologies screamed into a clothed shoulder, sobs shaking his body so hard he was surprised no one felt the ground shaking. He stayed like this, shrouded in shame, until his energy was drained, and he fell into a deep slumber, his ear to Altaïr's chest.

/

Well, goodness then. I think Malik is waaaay out of character in this, but hey (Jack), it's just the way my cookie crumbled, yo. Ok, that sounded flucked up, but I do hope the feels were adequate for y'all!. . . . . . And yes, I watch Duck Dynasty. If you got my 'Jack' thing from before. Peace out.


	4. To Heal

Malik awoke to the shaking of his shoulder and an urgent voice.

"Rafiq, what happend?" Said the voice of a novice that came by to help Malik on occasions. Malik's eyes opened. He felt sticky and gross, and his neck ached something fierce.

"Wha. . . Alik'ai? What are you doing here?" Malik inquired.

"I was coming to visit you, and I find you out here, out cold, lying on the body of. . Is that Altaïr?" He looked more closely at the corpse, while Malik tried to cope with the memories of last night as they rushed back into his exhausted mind. He tried, and failed, to hold back the wave of tears that came with looking into his old friend's dead face again. He turned his face towards the ground as fresh tears dripped off of his nose.

". . . Dai? Are you. . . Crying over this man? After all of the things he's done to-"

"Hah-help me get him into the bureau. . . Please." Malik said quietly, yet sternly. Alik'ai said nothing as he hoisted Altaïr's bloody carcass onto his shoulder and began scaling the bureau wall behind Malik, who then helped carry the dead Eagle onto the pile of pillows the novices use as a bed. Then, Malik began his work. Materials were gathered, bloody white robes discarded, torn skin was sewn together, dabbed with herb salves, bandaged carefully and monitored. For hours, Malik sat by Altaïr for ours, not once thinking that stitching him up was a waste of time. Even though he was already gone.

"Dai Malik. . .?" Alik'ai asked softly. "You have not drunk or eaten since before sun-up, I assume. You should take care of yourself. Altaïr is not-"

"Please, Alik'ai, leave us to suffer in peace. . ." Malik interjected quietly, not once taking his dark eyes off of Altaïr's still-handsome face. Alik'ai bowed, saying nothing as he climbed out of the bureau and was out of sight. That's when more pain, sorrow, shame, guilt, and a plethora of other things began to wash through Malik's half-crumbled will. Tears began to prick his eyes as he carefully, almost lovingly, lowered his head to the downed Eagle's chest. Something sparked in his mind this time though. It was different. Altaïr was different. There was a. . . Rushing, about his energy? Malik couldn't explain it. Until he heard the dull 'thump-thump' of a heartbeat. Malik quickly pulled away. 'Could. . .could he be. . .?' He thought, impossible hope swelling in his chest, before it was shot down. 'No. . . It was just my own pulse pounding through my skull. . . I think I shall get water to drink and some pain killers. I will think more clearly when this headache clears. I hope. . .' His hope of that it was Altaïr's heart he heard was growing dimmer by the second. His heart has been out for hours. Even if he did come back, he would be fucked up, and he wouldn't be back for long. His hope had been damped down into his stew of dreary emotions. But, it was still there.

Malik rustled around his desk for his water skin and the little flask of pain killing herbs and began mixing a bit of each into a small clay cup. He downed it, nearly choking on the bitter flavor that the herb held. He nearly dropped it when he heard a soft noise from the other room. His heart began to race, eyes widening and the fire of hope burning through his mist of shame and sorrow. 'It's probably just Alik'ai.' He told himself as he swiftly walked into the room. No, it was empty, save for a pair of golden eyes staring at him. A pair of golden eyes that belonged to none other than Altaïr Ibn La'Ahad.

"Altaïr. . .?" Malik asked quietly. His blood seemed to grow cool and clean, like it was flowing again. His hands shook, and a smile of pure joy nearly broke his face. Likewise to the tears to relief and happiness that pricked the corners of his eyes. 'Altaïr. . . Allah be praised, he's back from the dead. . .' Malik was nearly in a joy-fueled shock. Altaïr opened his mouth, as if to speak, but hesitated, unsure of what Malik would do. His mouth clamped shut in worry and confusion when Malik embraced him in a firm, yet gentle, one-armed hug. The dai buried his nose in Altaïr's now-warm neck and allowed his elated tears to fall. "Altaïr, Altaïr, my brother. . . You came back! You came back! I'm so sorry, so sorry!" Malik's mumbled words into the Eagle's neck were a mess of happy sobs, apologies, and joyful chants. Altaïr, only just returned from 'the land of the dead', had no idea what to think of Malik's sudden onslaught of emotion and tenderness. Tentatively, he wrapped his weak, bandaged arms around the dai's midsection, and Malik responded by petting the short, light brown hair of the back of Altaïr's head. He allowed his head to rest against Malik's and closed his eyes, savoring his scent. "My brother, my brother. . . I had lost you. I'm so sorry. . ." Malik was mumbling everything he ever wanted to say to his novice at this point, not caring.

"M-Malik?" Altaïr asked after Malik had stopped crying.

"Yes?" Malik responded quietly.

"I. . .eh. . . Kadar. . . Said he was happy." Malik pulled away to look Altaïr in the eye. The soft skin around his eyes were red and puffy from crying, but he didn't seem to care.

". . . What?" Malik asked, truly confused.

"I. . . When I was. . .you know; he spoke to me. . ." He paused, trying to remember everything he had said. "He told me to tell you he was happy. His whole life. He had no regrets, no anger, nothing. He was glad to have died fighting by your side." Malik held back a sob. 'My baby brother. . . How could I say I was justified to remember you by hating this man, and worse? I should know you that well, dear baby brother. Forgive me. . .'

"I. . . I see. I'm glad that he was happy." Malik smiled, and Altaïr allowed himself another small grin, remembering Kadar's own. Then, he remembered Kadar's request.

"He. . . Also asked a favor of me." The broken-winged Eagle spoke quietly, is meager strength failing him.

"What kind of favor?" Malik questioned, stroking Altaïr's tousled hair.

"To change the world." Malik's eyebrows rose. Then, he smiled once more.

"I think that is a favor that was meant to be asked of you, Altaïr. We both believed that you could change the world. I guess we still do." Altaïr looked away, feeling sheepish. Malik chuckled and lied down next to him, still stroking his hair. Altaïr snuggled up to the dai's warm chest, exhaustion taking over and dragging him down into a deep, healing sleep. Malik, smiled, happy to see his novice sleeping peacefully for the first time in years.

'Wounds heal, you and I both know this, Altaïr. It is the mental scars that life has inflicted upon us that I worry about. You are the cause for many of mine, I am the cause for many of yours. I believe we can find solace in one another, and, in tern, heal each other. We can't have the old times back. Let us make new ones worth remembering. And, in due time. . .'

". . . The white Eagle of Masyaf will fly again in all of his glory." Malik whispered softly into Altaïr's hair, before closing his eyes and drifting off into a dream land of purple candy skies and paper flowers with his Eagle.

'We can heal. I know it. Let us only be downed once more by the common death.'

End\\

Hey, peeps, sorry if this isn't up to my standard quality, but it's almost 2 am, I'm at the beach, and I'm really freaking tired from driving all day. If there are any grammatical errors or bad sections (no, you cannot put 'the whole thing'), please tell me. I'm looking to improve this. It's my first fanfiction I've put on this site. Figures it would be depressing, gory and fluffy, but you know. That's the way my cookie crumbles. . . My cookie with peanutbutter cups in it. Soaked in milk. Yum. So, yeah. I hope this story is ok. I may try to improve it at a later time when I'm not plagued by insomnia. (Btw, this whole thing was written at the same time, so yeah) Alik'ai is no one important. I'm good with coming up with names, and this one sounded Arabic, so I tossed it in there for Malik's sake XD

Safety and peace,

NeenerNoot


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